


Emotions

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Gen, POV First Person, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-21
Updated: 2011-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-15 20:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emotions are unreliable: Sherlock concludes that he can do without them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emotions

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Fourth time now. Fifth really. Bloody Mycroft. My case. My solution. Stupid brother. Always interfering. Only had what? Two points to clear up. Nothing complicated, nothing _strenuous_. Barely any damn legwork. Why did he have to- Yes, yes, _pluralitas non est ponenda sine necessitate_. _Not_ the point. Not even relevant. _Not_ exacerbating the situation. Unravelling it. Points to clear up. Dots to join. Nothing extra, nothing spare. _Logical_. Scientific method, Mycroft. Process. Due course. Nothing missing, nothing... gone? Quoting rip-off musical now. _Not_ good. Mycroft’s fault. Mycroft’s problem. Thinks he’s perfect. Ha! Must stop quoting. _Not_ a good version at all. Didn’t mind that song though. Only good song of entire production. Not that it matters. Getting distracted. Calamitous. Focus. Mycroft, bloody Mycroft. Always _fixing_ things. Did it ever occur to you, my stupid brother, that I might like to reach the conclusion myself? Points on a line. Stop skipping them. Stop taking them _away_ from me. My case. My puzzle. My own damn solution.

Mycroft’s car. Of course. Ignore it- no, not this time. Time to make a point. Look him in the eye. Make him stop. Pure reason. Will be calm, rational. Won’t be able to deflect it or ignore it. No chance against the rational. See how you like that, my damnable brother. Won’t be able to wriggle out of it so easily. Will _have_ to answer. Sit opposite him. Glare. Not unreasonable response. Not looking. _Texting_. Why the hell is he sending his own texts? What happened to his assistant? Oh. _Personal_ matter. Really? Really! Stupid brother. Ignoring me in favour of what? Stupid text.

“You stupid, fat, fuck.”

 _Not_ what I was intending. Still. Provoking me by sending text. Entirely justified. Not reacting though. _Not reacting._ Lip twitches. Trying not to _laugh_. Fuck you, Mycroft. _Fuck you_.

“You miserable sodding bastard, why can’t you just leave me alone!”

Looks up at last. That blandly disappointed look. The one I always hate. The one I can’t argue with. Disappointed. At what? My language? Hardly. Not eloquent but functional. Fucking bastard. Don’t you dare look down your nose at me. Looks back at his phone. Pointless. Can’t win. Not like this. Bastard. Dive for the car door. Won’t endure this. Almost make it too. Managed to stop him texting at least. Arm around waist pulling me backwards. Of course. Car still moving. Sensible really. Bastard.

Not texting anymore. Might be hard to now. Sitting on his bloody lap. Fantastic.

“I fucking hate you.”

Not really trying to hit him. Ineffective. Pounding fists against his shoulders. Too weak to cause any damage. Not at this angle. Pointless really. Uncurl fists. Head on his shoulder now. Mutter obscenities into the fabric. Doesn’t react. Quiet. Stately. Feel like a child. _Have_ just thrown a tantrum. No wonder he thinks- Both arms around me. Curious. What- He’s bloody texting again.

“I fucking hate you. You’re a pig.”

Whisper it this time. Won’t make a difference. Doesn’t matter what I say. Never matters. Join the dots. Forgone conclusion. Does it never occur to him that I might like to find the solution myself? Might take longer but the answer would be mine. Wish he’d stop taking away the details, the data. Can’t function without data. Can’t.

“Please...”

Stops texting. Actually looking at me. Surprise. For both of us.

“Stop taking this away from me. Please, Mycroft. Please. Let me have this at least.”  
“Sherlock?”  
“Please, I’ll do anything. Just... don’t take this from me as well.”

Begging. Doesn’t seem so terrible now. Forgotten what it’s like to be angry. Only moments ago. Burnt out. Emotions are unreliable. Fade so quickly. Irrational. Unreasonable. Tired. Numb. Can’t feel anything anymore. So tired. Close eyes. Forget.

“Doesn’t matter.”

Pressure against the small of my back. Mycroft’s hand. Gentle. Comforting. Wonder if I’m bipolar? Would anti-depressants solve the problem? If you’re worrying about going mad, you probably aren’t. Same principle. Tired though. When did I last eat? What did I eat? Burger King hash browns. Anything else? Don’t think so. That would explain it. But- so tired.

“Sleep then.”

Here? Like this? Like a child.

“Just like this, if you like.”

Points along a line. Join the dots. Mycroft cheats. Chinese Checkers. Skips over. Not like the rest of us. Not like me. Can’t calculate, can’t function without all the data. Missing. Always. Absence of logical progression. Quantum leaps of logic. Possibility, probability. Silly, for a statistician. Logic. Is it logic? Intuition. But like nobody else’s. Mycroft doesn’t guess. But how? _How_? What is it that he _sees_? Why can’t I-

“Hush, Sherlock. You should rest.”

Hand stroking my hair now. What am I to you, my brother? A fool. A child. A flawed copy? The runoff of a successful experiment. I can’t-

“Emotions are so very unreliable.”

Rest. Better... in the morning? When I wake? Dozing on Mycroft’s lap. How foolish. Pathetic really. Letting him do this. Soothing. Peaceful. Maybe we’re both fools. What does he feel? How can he understand? How can he believe...? Feeling interferes with everything. Distorts the important. Turns men into fools. Would- wouldn’t... Irrational. Can’t even stop myself.

Nothing is quantifiable, not through the lens of my own perception. How bleak. How horrible. Emotions distort everything, break all reason. Would like to- will aim to- Forget them all. Don’t need to feel to function. Don’t need emotions at all. Useless really. Hardly functional. Will do without them. Push them aside. Push them down. Burry them with reason. Nothing else matters. Logic. Nothing else. Don’t need anything else at all. Everything else is pointless. Arbitrary. Transitory. _I will not feel_. Don’t need to in the slightest.

Cold now. So tired. Clutch at Mycroft’s jacket. Doesn’t matter. Ignoring emotions now. Ignoring odd feeling. Strange sensation... Regret? Sadness? Have nothing to be sad about. Mourning. Why? Can do without emotions. Not losing anything. Stripping away the unnecessary. _Why does it hurt?_ Don’t need this. More proof. Never _needed_ this. Will never need to feel anything again. Where has _feeling_ ever got me anyway? Rational argument. Can’t- Far too tired. Join the dots. Obvious conclusion. Can’t quite put it all together. Mycroft’s hand stroking my hair still. Silly Mycroft. Pointless- yawning. Sleep then. When I wake... everything will have changed.

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock references _Perfect Music_ from Rosen and Schierhorn's “Phantom of The Opera”.
> 
> “Pluralitas non est ponenda sine necessitate.” translates as “Plurality should not be posited without necessity.” Better known as Occam's Razor.


End file.
